Page 81 of Company of Thieves
Alan glanced back. Hallie stood bright-eyed with excitement, a cloth satchel slung across her chest. Being the bearer of the satchel was the only way he could dissuade her from bringing along that damned bow that she was so fond of, and he made a mental note to find a good archer to give her advanced training, since she seemed to be a natural at it. Beyond her, Zand, Az, and three other members of his company stood, all watchful, waiting on his command.
“We’ll try this Hallie’s way first,” he said softly, gesturing toward the satchel. “But if it doesn’t work—”
“It will, Jack swears by it,” Hallie interrupted in a whisper, giving him a poke on the chest armor to emphasize just how annoyed she was by his lack of faith.
“If it, for some reason, fails, then do what you must to keep yourselves safe. Are you ready, my stabby little dove?”
Hallie whipped out a handful of glass syringes, fanning them in a manner that made Alan nervous. “Jack’s patented superfast knockout drugs at your service, Your Imperial Husbandness.”
They were silent as the proverbial church mouse when they ascended the stairs into the imperator’s apartments.
“The royal entrance hall,” Alan murmured in Hallie’s ear when she gawked at the long, rectangular room. The room was lit only by two gas jets on either side of an ornate stone fireplace bearing the bust of the imperator. A dull glow came from the moonlight that gleamed in through three massive windows that opened to the courtyard.
“Antechamber,” he whispered, dodging the chairs and occasional tables that littered the room.
“So pretty,” she answered, eyeing the gold-and-white floral wallpaper and stucco decorations. “But if you’re going to want to live here after we take care of your dad, I’m going to have a few things to say to you.”
“I have no intention of residing here,” he answered, and opened the doors to the adjacent room. This, too, was silent as the grave, just the faint sputtering of gas jets left on should the imperator need attendants during the night. “And this is the audience room.”
“OK, this is beyond gorgeous,” she said, looking at the windows on two sides of the corner room. “That crystal chandelier is bigger than your whole cabin on theNightwing.”
“Not quite, but it’s close. Quiet, now. This next room may be occupied.”
Alan opened the door to the writing room slowly, peering in. Sitting at a large golden console table were four men in guard uniforms, cards, glasses, and two decanters laid out on the table before them.
Hallie peered around him, and silently handed out syringes to their men, nodding when Alan gestured for her to stand back. He threw open the door, and with his shoulders back—and donning Akbar’s arrogant strut—entered the room, scattering orders.
“I want the windows checked, and a guard at all the doors. The imperator’s life is at risk.” He stopped and glared at the men who had scrambled to their feet, two of them whisking the decanters behind them. “What is this? Why are you not at your posts?”
The men all exchanged looks. Then one of them made a smart bow and said, “We are, Your Imperial Highness. We guard the imperator’s bedchamber.”
“Faugh,” Alan said, gesturing to his men. “Relieve these guards of their duty. I will speak to the captain in the morning.”
“But, Your Imperial Highness—” The ringleader stared in surprise when Alan whisked out a syringe and jabbed it into the man’s arm, quickly depressing the plunger. The guard looked first at his arm, then at Alan; then, just when Alan was about to swear under his breath that he knew Jack’s concoction wasn’t as effective as Hallie had sworn it would be, the guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled forward.
Alan looked toward the doorway to where Hallie stood with one raised eyebrow. He made her a little bow, saying softly, “Yes, yes, you were right. You won the bet. You get to be in charge two times consecutively.”
“And I get to use the scarves both times,” she reminded him, moving over to stand at his side, glancing down at the guards who now littered the floor. “Jack says they should be out for about twenty minutes, so we should probably get cracking. I assume your dad’s bedroom is through there?” She nodded to the door set between two massive urns.
“Yes. Stay back.” He accepted two syringes and, after a glance at Zand, opened the door to the imperator’s bedchamber.
No gas jets fluttered in here. The room was close and humid, filled with a rumbling sound that came from the center of the massive canopied bed that dominated the room. Thankfully, the bed had only one occupant, Alan noted when he peeled back a bit of the blanket to expose the imperator’s arm.
“Hrmm? What is it?” The imperator grunted and snorted when Alan plunged the needle into the arm that lay on the bed, clamping his hand down on it when it jerked. “Who is that? What are you doing?”
Alan signaled to Zand, who lit a lamp next to the bed.
The imperator looked up at Alan with confused eyes. “What the devil do you think ... Akbar? What are you ... doing ... heee ...”
“I owe Jack a barrel of the imperator’s finest rum,” Alan said when his father fell back against his silk pillows, his mouth open and slack.
“Two barrels. And one for us, too. Well”—Hallie came forward and rubbed her belly—“we can save ours for after the miracle is born. I assume he’s out cold?”
“Yes.”
“I have to say, that’s kind of anticlimactic,” she said in a disappointed tone, watching when Alan quickly peeled off the blankets and, with his men, used the sheet beneath the imperator to lift him, wrapping him in it just as if he were a cocooned moth. “I expected us to have to shoot our way in, fight with your dad before you handily jabbed him with the knockout stuff, and then fight our dashing way out. This is just ... easy.”
“I much prefer easy to your dire imaginings, although to be honest, I fear the escape is going to be much more difficult.”
